swung a hammock in
my orchard I may build a little hut."

"It's a pretty picture, sir, but lonely, I should say."

"Ah, well, Mrs. Brady, there'll be four walls to my hut and every inch
of those walls will be covered with books," announced the Professor, as
he strolled out of the kitchen, leaving the door ajar.

Molly, now thoroughly exhausted, amazed, and quite faint from her
emotions, was pulling herself to her knees when the Professor marched
swiftly back into the room and walked into the pantry.

"I wanted to see how much coffee you had left----" he began. "I'll be
writing for more----" His foot encountered something soft on the floor
and glancing quickly down he caught a glimpse in the shadow of a figure
huddled up in the corner. The face was hidden in the curve of the elbow,
but he saw the red hair, and a beam through a crack in the door cast a
slanting light across the blue silk blouse.

"Why, Molly Brown, my little friend," he exclaimed. And he lifted her to
her feet and half carried her to a chair near the fire. "So it was you
who cooked me that delicious Christmas breakfast, and now you're half
dead from fatigue and hunger. You've had no breakfast, confess?"

Molly lifted her eyes to his and shook her head. Then she lowered her
gaze and blushed.

"I'm too ashamed to think of breakfast," she said.

"Mrs. Brady, put the kettle on," ordered the Professor. "Get out the
eggs. Where's the bacon?"

"In the jar, sliced, sir."

"But," protested Molly.

"Don't say a word, child. Be perfectly quiet."

Then the Professor began to fly about the room, tearing into the pantry,
rushing from the table to the stove and back again, rummaging in the
refrigerator for oranges and butter, and upsetting two chairs that stood
in his way.

All this time Mrs. Brady quietly toasted bread and broiled bacon while
there hovered on her lips an enigmatic smile. Then she scrambled two
eggs while the Professor tested the coffee and squeezed an orange
alternately. Molly watched him in dazed silence.

"He bought the apple orchard and that is how I happen to be at
Wellington this minute," she kept thinking mechanically. "He worked all
summer and got into debt and caught typhoid fever in order to furnish
me"--she choked--"and I spoke to him like that. No wonder he's a woman
hater--no wonder he wants books----"

"Ready," announced Mrs. Brady, and the next thing Molly knew she was
sitting at the table drinking orange juice while th